


the bloody edge of the golden world

by plantagenet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantagenet/pseuds/plantagenet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...elsewise they were more alike than she and Jaime." - Cersei Lannister, A Feast for Crows</p><p>Fic musings on the sacrifices made by the Tyrell siblings for one another, and that while their choices mimic the Lannisters' from fifteen years before, they are made with entirely antithetical motives. (Written a year and a half ago prior to reading AFFC, if I recall!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bloody edge of the golden world

She knows something is wrong when she hears the squeal of horses outside her queen’s tent. There is a shiver of panic in her at first and then she looks and sees her brother emerging from the darkness. The burning coals in her fireplace illuminate the wet panes of his face, his tear stained cheeks and the sweat in the hollow of his throat. He walks like he might be wounded, but when he stops short and fixes her with his gaze she knows the blood on his clothes is not his own. There’s a murderous glint in him, but as she watches, it shatters. Margaery’s breath hitches in her throat, cold and sharp.

“Our king is dead,” Loras’ voice breaks under the weight of the news.

Their cousins gasp and start to cry. How can they at a time like this? she thinks.  All the air seems to have gone from the room in one moment, and there is only the stink of smoke and blood left to rankle their nostrils.

Olenna Redwyne is quick on the draw, as she would be.

“Girls,  _leave us_ ,” she barks and they scurry away like mice. Margaery cannot leave her brother’s eye, so level with her own. Her breath all comes loose in a weak whimper, and at once her Loras barrels into her, armor clattering, and knocks the last cry from her chest. They shake together as he sobs into her shoulder, his hands clutching at her - clutching for  _something_  as the chasm opens up inside him.

She knits up her fingers tightly into her brother’s chestnut curls. When they were children, chasing each other around the fragrant honey trees, it was how she used to torture him, render him squirming until he reached out and grabbed her by the braids. “I’m here, Loras, I’m here,” she whispers, but she isn’t, really. She feels very far away from his suffering.

She remembers Renly’s hand on the small of her back and the heat of his breath in her ear. When he kissed her, chastely, on the mouth for all their retinue to see, his lips had tasted like Highgarden peaches.  


She would have borne that burden happily she thinks as the tears begin to roll down her cheeks. Her grandmother will not be pleased.

“Who killed the king?” Olenna Redwyne’s voice pierces the fog like a blade, her mind growing sharp on the snags of minutia. Loras sobs against Maergary’s stomach, silk soaked hot. She clutches him closer still.  


“It was that bitch of Tarth!” he snarls in her arms. He bunches her skirts in his fists like a child, smearing them red.

Their grandmother’s wrinkles contract slightly as she imagines the lopsided face in question, then she moves forward, though her voice remains unpleasant: “I hope for your sake then she was the one you butchered.”

Loras wails again, and it is clear that, no, the king’s killer lumbers on. The Knight of the Flowers thrashes down upon his sister like a ship straining against the beach. Margaery holds him steady the best she can, rocking like the ocean to bare him back to peace. But her grandmother is still watching, so her rocking turns to shaking.  


"Loras, please. Stop." Her voice is more a plead than a command.

“We’ll throw our lots in with the Lannisters. Mop up your tears, boy, the lions won’t take kindly to them.”  


“ _Stop talking_!” Her brother grunts at her through gnashed teeth. “Why must it always be politics with you?! Renly is dead! The blood is still wet on him!” Their grandmother draws near and slaps him across the face.  


“All we are is politics, you child,” she says, grimly. “Your king sits on the Iron Throne now.” With a turn, the Queen of Thorns goes beyond the silk walls and Loras screams hatred at her as she does. He falls back to his knees and hides his face in hands.

Margaery soaks the hem of her skirt in the lavender water bath left at the bedside. She brings the light to his face again and goes to mop the blood from him. Loras is still trembling as she dabs the sweat from his brow and before long, the yellow silk is heavy with the lives of Renly’s kingsgard, cropped short by her brother’s grief. She hears him whisper the dead king’s name. No, not the king.  _The traitor_. She tells herself that it is true now, though her heart is thrumming hard enough to leave bruises on her ribs.

"We must be strong, Loras," she whispers, though she knows they will take her away from him now. There is a prayer to the Mother on her lips; that if they are to be bedded with lions and torn beneath their claws, that they may be like those ladies and knights of old, buried side by side beneath rose bushes so that their flowers might bind together.

In her mind she hears their words and it makes her sick to think that they might find their roots in an earth soaked with blood:  _growing strong._

_-_

Loras hopes his smile is smug as he lets the white cloak unfurl behind him. Her chambers are full of the yellow Capital light and golden butterflies, but she looks pale and wan as she sits by the window and looks back at him, queen-to-be.

“But-” his sister sighs as his smile earns teeth. He knows what she’s thinking, he always has. The objections that are rising like soap bubbles in her head, all the things he will give up in taking the white. And one by one, he watches them expire behind her eyes. He can inherit no properties as it stands, being below Garlan and Willas in age if not stature, and why would the Knight of Flowers ever care to take a wife?

He bows to her and the corners of her mouth twitch.

“You don’t think I’d let you go into the lion’s den alone, do you?”

“Is this Father’s idea of insurance?” Margaery asks, primly, moving a hand across his new green-silk skin. She sinks her fingers in - this is the sort of life she will have to get used to now, porcelain guards shadowing her every step, weighing her every word. "He doesn't trust Grandmother to look after me?" There are tears in her eyes, though she’s brave enough to keep them back. He knows she’s tentative, somewhere inside. The boy-king’s reputation echoes in the arched gardens and their grandmother has plans.  


“No. It’s mine,” he said. “We all make our sacrifices.”   


His little sister looks up to him.   


“Some of us don’t have a choice,” she arches a brow, and he sees that glimpse of her that is still a child. She speaks as if she never agreed to the plans: to marry Renly, to marry Joffrey. It isn't a woman's place to hatch plots, to be asked permission. But that, perhaps, is sarcasm talking. He rolls his eyes at her.   


“Some do.”   


Then Margaery crumbles against him, fitting her arms under his. Loras is a champion, true, but he prides himself on being fair. Within the cold, closed walls and the yellow light, there are no audiences to fool. She can hold him as she might need to - a sister with her brother, and clutch him secretly for the risk of it all. For the high stakes to play, and what comes next. The ice gets thinner the further they go. Better not to walk alone. As she grips him to her, he knows she is just holding on to hold  _something_.

The chasm can open up beneath them, but at least, together, they might be buried whole.


End file.
